Page Turner Pa (5 page)

"
Cin-cin.
"

"You're very nice to have invited me up," he continued. "Believe me, I never expected it."

"Why?"

"Well, you must have much better things to do with your time than sit here with a page turner."

"Not really."

"But what about your tour?"

"It's over. As of this morning, I'm officially on vacation."

"Still, you must know a lot of people in Rome."

"No."

Blushing, Paul scratched at the fabric of the armchair. "Boy, I almost can't believe this is happening. Maybe it's jet lag. I mean, when I walked up to that concierge, I was sweating bullets. I never in a million years imagined—"

"You are ballsy, I'll give you that. When I was your age, I never would have been brave enough—"

"Oh, but I'm not brave. Or I should say, I'd never have been brave if it hadn't been you. Only when I saw that poster, and saw that I'd missed your concert by just one night, I couldn't bear the bad timing of it, especially after what happened in San Francisco. So I decided to take my chances. I just started calling one hotel after another, only the five-star ones, of course."

Kennington stretched out his legs. "The page turner from San Francisco," he said, smiling. Then he got up and, strolling over to Paul's chair, knelt in front of him and tousled his hair. "You know, Tushi couldn't get over how well dressed you were. Better than she was, in my opinion."

"I only dressed the way I would have expected a page turner to dress if I'd been playing."

"How old did you say you were?"

"I didn't. I'm eighteen."

"Eighteen," Kennington repeated. "I'll bet you're still growing chest hair." He fingered Paul's open collar.

"When you were my age, you were on your second European tour," Paul said, wriggling.

"I was very bad in those days. I was always threatening to hurt my hands."

"Hurt them?"

"You know, stick them into alligators' mouths."

"You're joking—"

"And once I put my right hand into the garbage disposal and threatened to turn it on. My mother had to switch off the circuit breakers."

"Why did you do that? Stop, you're tickling me."

"To scare people. You must be tired from your flight."

"Not tired enough that I wouldn't have hurried over to your concert if it had been tonight. I would have given anything to hear you play the Chopin B-flat minor sonata. And speaking of the B-flat minor sonata, I meant to ask you, do you take the first-movement repeat—"

"I know when I get off a long flight, there's nothing I like better than a nice backrub."

"And if you do—"

"Want me to give you one? Get up. That's right." He sat in Paul's chair. "Now sit down. On the floor. Good." Hard legs enfolded Paul, who felt a sudden yanking on his shoulders.

He made a sound.

"Too deep?"

"No, it's okay. The fact is, I've never had a backrub. And you've got big hands. Me, I've got smallish hands. Ow! Miss Novotna says it doesn't matter, not everyone has hands like Rachmaninoffs."

He splayed his fingers. Kennington, taking his right hand from Paul's shoulder, pressed it against the open palm.

"Mine's not that much bigger."

"Are you kidding? Your forefinger must be half an inch longer than mine. But to get back to the B-flat minor—"

"Don't you ever talk about anything except music?"

"Sure... lots of things."

Curling his fingers inside Paul's, Kennington pulled them into a double fist. "Then let's make a deal," he whispered in Paul's ear. "Let's agree not to talk about music anymore, at least tonight."

"Fine." Paul stared at the conjoined entity of their hands.

Letting go, Kennington resumed his backrub. "So tell me something about yourself, Paul. After all, if we're going to be friends, it hardly seems fair that you should know so much about me when I don't know anything about you."

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Whatever you feel like."

"Well, let's see ... I was born on February 29, so I only have a birthday every four years. In Boston. My family's from Boston, originally. We moved west when I was eight."

"And what do your parents do for a living?"

"My father owns a printing business. My mother—she's a housewife, I guess, though she does volunteer work."

"Brothers and sisters?"

"One of each. They're older than me, and married."

"And are you married?"

"Of course not! I'm only eighteen."

"But you must have a girlfriend."

"No."

"A boyfriend?"

Paul said nothing.

"All right, now that I've interrogated you, you can ask me any questions you like, providing they're not musical."

"Well ... I know you're not married. Do
you
have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

"Well, I kind of assumed that you and Miss Strauss—"

"Tushi?" Kennington laughed. "Oh, I'm afraid I'm much too old for Tushi."

"But isn't she older than you?"

"Not enough for her taste."

Paul was quiet again. Closing his eyes, he started to relax into the rhythm of Kennington's hands.

"Good, you're loosening up. A long flight is hell on the shoulders." Kennington stopped rubbing. "Say, I have an idea. Why don't you lie down on the bed? That way I can give you a proper massage."

Nodding, Paul stood.

"You can put your clothes on the chair," Kennington continued.

"My clothes!"

"I can't very well massage you through your clothes, can I?"

"I see your point," Paul agreed and, turning away, he began, somewhat cautiously, to unbutton his shirt. Kennington watched him. In truth, his own brazenness appalled him a little: after all, the proffered massage is easily the most cynical of seduction tactics, for isn't the essence of cynicism to cover lecherous intent with the thinnest veil of propriety, so thin that anyone who fails to see through it has only himself to blame? And yet he hardly believed Paul had come to his hotel room at nine in the evening just to talk about octaves.

Finally he finished with the shirt. "I'll just grab a towel," Kennington said, and went into the bathroom.

When he returned, towel and skin lotion in hand, Paul was standing by the chair in his underwear. In lieu of the usual briefs, he wore immense white boxer shorts, bloomers practically, at the sight of which Kennington couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry. It's just that those boxer shorts remind me of my father's."

"They're from Brooks Brothers," Paul said defensively. "And anyway, what's wrong with them? They're comfortable. And if they're not like what boys my age usually wear, so what? I'm not like most boys my age. I've always preferred a more classic style of dress."

"Yes, of course. You're perfectly right. I apologize if I've embarrassed you."

"You haven't embarrassed me."

"You'd better take off your T-shirt too," Kennington added, opening the lotion bottle.

"I was just going to." Slowly he pulled the T-shirt over his head, where it caught on his glasses. He wrestled with it. A spray of fine pimples, Kennington noticed, fanned out over his pale shoulder blades.

"So where do you want me to lie down?" he asked, once he'd gotten out of the T-shirt.

"Here." Kennington spread the towel out on the bed.

Paul took off his glasses. "This is a comfortable mattress."

"Do you think so? You're welcome to sleep on it any time you want."

"Oh, but I've got my own room! Of course it's not as nice as this one. And smaller. Still, I like it. There's this window that ... ow, that lotion's cold!"

"It'll warm up in a second." Under Kennington's hands, Paul's body gave off a faint, sweet staleness.

"You know what Miss Novotna once told me? She told me that Cecile Barrière—she was one of her pupils—has it written into her contracts to have a massage at every hotel she stays in."

"Sounds like Cecile."

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"An acquaintance."

"Then maybe you can tell me what the thing is with her Haydn disc. I know it got a great review in
Gramophone.
Even so—"

Kennington slapped lightly at the back of Paul's head. "I thought we'd agreed not to talk about music."

"I forgot."

"Why don't you shut up and just relax? You're never going to play Chopin until you learn to relax."

"Okay."

"Good." Kennington breathed. He touched the backs of Paul's calves very lightly, so that goosebumps rose.

Outside the rain started up again, a steady drumming against the window.

"Relax," Kennington incanted. "That's right." Bending over, he kissed Paul's neck.

Instantly Paul tensed.

"Hey, you're shivering," Kennington said. "You'd better get under the covers."

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid you've misunderstood—or maybe I have."

"Misunderstood what?"

"Why I came here."

"Why did you come here?" Kennington pursued.

"To see you. Not because ... I mean, how can you know what you're like if you haven't done anything?"

"You can't," Kennington said. And switching the lights off, he began, in the dark, to unbuckle his watch.

 

"Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"But you didn't—"

"It doesn't matter."

Climbing out of the bed, Paul started pulling on his boxer shorts.

"Don't you want to take a shower?" Kennington asked, turning on the light for him.

"It's okay, I don't need to. Say, I really had a great time tonight. And thank you for the—"

"Paul, slow down."

He stopped, turned and gazed frankly at Kennington, who got out of bed, walked toward him, put his hands on his shoulders. "There's no need to rush," he whispered.

"But I'm tired. More tired than I've ever been in my life."

"Then why don't you sleep?"

"Because I have to get back. My mother will be worried."

"Are you sharing a room?"

"No."

"Then how will she know?"

"You haven't met my mother. Knowing her, she probably went down to the lobby and checked to see if the key was in the box."

Pulling away, Paul reached for his trousers, turned his T-shirt right side out. Kennington sat down on the bed. A sparse line of hairs, like sentries, marched from Paul's navel into his pants. Then the hairs disappeared inside the T-shirt, the T-shirt inside the shirt. Socks and shoes went on last. It was like watching a film run backward.

Finally he pulled on his jacket, patted his pants pocket, his breast pocket, his wrist.

"Wallet, watch, keys," he said. "Only tonight I don't have keys." He held out his hand. "So, good night. Thank you."

"Paul—"

"I'll never forget this evening ... obviously."

"Let me ask one thing. Did I make a mistake tonight? Did I lead you into something you weren't ready for?"

"No, of course not."

"Because I assumed that when you came here, well, that this was what you came here for."

"I'm not sure why I came here," Paul said. "A lot has happened. It's been a long day and I'm tired."

"I understand."

"So, good-bye."

"Good-bye." They shook. Kennington walked him to the door, where Paul turned.

"You do realize," he said, "that I love you."

Kennington opened his mouth.

Paul left.

Kennington sat down. All day he'd been in an ill humor, only some of the reasons for which need be enumerated here: loneliness, the approach of forty, a nasty article in
The Boston Globe
that accused him of "perverting" Schubert. It had been his intention tonight to assuage that ill humor with bourbon and the writing of letters he would not end up sending; then, when Paul arrived, to assuage it with the sort of sexual despoiling that elegant hotel rooms always seemed to adore. Yet was it possible that Paul had come simply to—no, not to talk about music; that was
too
simple; perhaps, then, to look for something even the name of which he didn't know? In which case the shock of simultaneously learning what he wanted and getting it—it might have been too much.

The phone rang. Hoping it might be Paul, Kennington hurried to answer.

"Hello?"

"I've been trying to reach you all night. Were you at dinner?"

"Just taking a walk."

"Oh, that sounds nice. Walking through the streets of old Rome." Across an ocean, Joseph Mansourian sucked on his cigarette. "So listen, I'm afraid I have some bad news. Sophie's not doing too well."

"Really? What's wrong?"

"Well, yesterday Maria called me at work and said she was having trouble breathing, so in the afternoon I took her over to Dr. Wincote, who thinks it's time ... you know, to put her to sleep. And I understand his point. Still, I just can't. Not while she keeps looking up at me that way."

"I'm sorry, Joseph."

"And it's not like she's in pain or anything. She's eating. Most of the day she just lies on the kitchen floor, and she seems peaceful." Another drag on the cigarette. "So for the moment, I've decided to wait. Do you think it's the right decision?"

"I suppose, as long as she's not in pain."

"That's my feeling, too. And I'm glad you agree because it's tough having to ignore Dr. Wincote's advice, him being the professional." He coughed. "Well, and how are you doing over there?"

"Fine. Relaxing."

"By the way, I got an e-mail from the Santa Cecilia people. They were thrilled with the concert. They want you back next year."

"Wonderful."

"Oh, and speaking of Santa Cecilia, I hope you're not planning to skip that dinner tomorrow night with Mr. Batisti."

"What do you mean, skip it?"

"Just ... well, Richard, you know as well as I do, that in the past, you've sometimes forgotten—"

"Forgotten is not the same as skipped. Say what you mean. You want to make sure I don't stand Batisti up."

"No!" Another inhalation. "Look, let me start again. I only want to stress, as your manager, the importance of this dinner in terms of your career. After all, that's my job."